


Abide with me

by Anathema Device (notowned)



Series: Ghosts [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 00:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13602009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notowned/pseuds/Anathema%20Device
Summary: How de Tréville met Athos. And what happened to Porthos





	Abide with me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/gifts).



> A prequel to ["Le Fantôme des Mousquetaires"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13281189)
> 
> Again, my thanks and appreciation to Thimblerig for encouragement, and kindness.

De Tréville heard the exquisite music coming from the inn they were to stay in, while Martin was still helping him down from his carriage. “See to the bags and horses,” he told his footman. “I want to listen to this.”

Martin bowed, and de Tréville went inside. The inn was nothing special, just one of dozens like it catering to travellers on their way to and from Paris. Once upon a time, de Tréville would not have bothered to stop at all, and insisted the carriage continue on well into the night, to reach his estate. But now his bones were old and painful, and he preferred to break up his journeys, to spare them the jolting of the carriage.

It was too early for dinner, but there were a good many customers inside the inn, drawn perhaps by the warm fire, or good wine.

Or perhaps by the thin, bearded young man in a ratty old carnival mask, playing his violin in the corner. No sheet music, no chair. Just the violin, the player, and sweet, perfect Bach.

He found a seat and ordered wine, telling the maid he was also staying for the night and would want a meal for himself and his manservant. When she brought his wine, he sat back and lost himself in the beauty of Bach’s genius, and the skill of this unlikely performer.

When the man was done, he took a short break to drink and eat some stew, sitting on a stool next to where he had been playing. De Tréville went over and dropped a gold coin into the man’s violin case. The man looked up and shook his head. He picked up the coin and tried to hand it back. De Tréville refused.

“I would pay much more to have you play for me all night, _monsieur_. I am Jean de Tréville. _Comte de Tréville_. Tell me, what is your name?”

The man shook his head again, dropped the coin back into the violin case, and returned to his food, ignoring de Tréville.

There was a story there, de Tréville knew instantly. “Let me at least pay for a better meal than that slop, and for the pleasure of your company for an hour or two. It’s rare to meet another who loves music as much as I do.”

The eyes behind the mask were wary. The man pointed to his violin, then held up all the fingers on both hands. “You have to play until ten?” The man nodded. “Then I will sit and listen. Keep the coin, lad. Money is one thing I have an abundance of, and little need for.”

Another curt nod, and the coin disappeared into a pocket.

Except for that and another two short breaks, the masked musician played for hours, even after ten had struck on the clock. Martin had gone to bed, and the inn was emptying, but the man played on for the sheer joy of it.

But at last, the innkeeper told him to stop, and the man put away the few coins he had earned, his violin into its case, and seemed about to leave. “Wait, _monsieur_. Share a cup of wine with me before you go? Innkeeper, a bottle and another glass, please. Some more bread too.”

The man came over and sat politely across from de Tréville. The mask was cheaply made, and did not entirely hide the birthmark on the right side of the man’s face and extending a little down the neck past the short beard.

“You’re hiding that?” de Tréville asked, pointing. “If you think a birthmark would disgust me, you don’t know old soldiers. I’ve seen men with half their faces blown right off. Remove it, dear fellow. It must itch like the devil.”

The man obeyed. The birthmark was large and crimson, covering all of the right side of the man’s face below the eye. Disfiguring, undoubtedly, but many had worse. The mask seemed an overreaction.

“Better. Thank you, _monsieur_ ,” de Tréville said to the innkeeper who put the wine and bread before them.

The man bowed. “I am locking up soon, _monsieur le comte_. But you are welcome to stay down here as long as you wish.”

“Thank you.” The innkeeper left and de Tréville poured wine for the two of them. When his companion took his cup, de Tréville lifted his own, and said, “ _À votre santé_.”

The other man did not respond, though he nodded. “Are you perhaps mute?” de Tréville asked.

The man nodded, but made a rocking motion with his hand. “Not always mute?” The man nodded again. “Ah. I’ve seen this too. Do you sing at all?” Another nod, which surprised him. “Do you sing here?” A shake of the head. Not surprising then. “Where do you sleep? In the stables?”

The man pointed to the roof and smiled a little. “In the rafters? Dear God. Young man, I have an enormous house and no one to share it but servants. How would you like to come and stay with me for a bit, and you could play to your heart’s content. Sing too, if you like.”

The man looked away, and de Tréville belatedly realised it sounded like he was propositioning him. “No, no. I don’t want you for intimate relations. Just the music. I was like you once. Music was my life. My father was a fine musician himself. He even built an opera house with the idea of letting companies hire it and perform there. Which they did, of course. It’s an excellent building. Called it the Garrison, in honour of his fallen military friends. It’s a bit small for some productions, but with magnificent acoustics. He hoped I would follow a career there myself. I would be his finest creation, he said.”

His companion’s expression had gone quite blank. “Have I touched on something painful? I’m sorry.” The man shrugged. “I loved music, and at fifteen, I wanted what my father wanted for me. At eighteen, I fell in love with the army and the glory of serving France with honour. I broke Papa’s heart the day I won my commission.”

He remembered that day so clearly. His sister weeping over the thought of him dying in battle. His father’s stern countenance, hiding his worry. And de Tréville himself, so puffed up and proud of his new uniform. What a fool he had been.

“I was in the army for thirty years. I still loved music, and listened and played whenever I could, but the army is no place for a musician. I retired last year on medical grounds. My father is long dead, my sister too. I can indulge myself as I choose, but there is no one to share my passion.”

If only he hadn’t botched things with Porthos so badly.

He lifted his wine cup. “And there you have it. A fool who wasted a damn good chance to become great at what he loved. You, _monsieur_ , are truly gifted. I’m not so much a fool that I can’t see that. Come to my house, play, sing, advance yourself. Even if you never perform in public, you can become the musician you were born to be. Do you love playing in this kind of place so much?”

The man hesitated, then shook his head. De Tréville was not surprised. He doubted one in a hundred listeners could tell exactly how perfect this man’s playing was. What was his voice like? De Tréville was suddenly, maddeningly curious to know.

“I leave in the morning, after breakfast. Be here if you want to come with me. I will pay you a salary to be my personal musician, and you can leave whenever you like. Does that sound fair?”

The man nodded. He held out a long-fingered, elegant hand. De Tréville shook it. “Done. Until morning, _monsieur_.”

*************************

Slightly to his surprise, as he had thought the odds were fifty-fifty that the man would not show up, the nameless musician was waiting for him as de Tréville came downstairs. “Have you eaten?” The man indicated he had, but only a little. “Then join me before set out. Our journey will only be a few hours.

While they ate, de Tréville noted that a sword in its scabbard and a matching main gauche had been added to the musician’s meagre store of belongings. “Yours?” The man nodded. “You know how to use it?”

The man stood up straighter, his lips thin and straight, and glared at him, highly offended by the question.

“Hmmm. Plenty of fellows like to swagger about with such things, but you don’t seem the type. Please do not injure me or yourself if you feel the need to wave it around.” The sour look on his companion’s face needed no words to supply his feelings about that remark, and de Tréville hid a smile at his indignation.

They travelled in silence for three hours, then Martin pulled the horses off the road so he could feed and water them. The musician helped de Tréville down from the carriage so they could relieve themselves. The young man finished before him—one of the many benefits of youth—and wandered off a little way to stare at the vegetation.

Just as de Tréville was about to join his new friend to stretch his legs, a gun shot close at hand, the sudden panic of the horses, and Martin’s cry of pain, had his pistol in his hand in a moment. “Martin? Who’s there?”

“Me, old man.” A ragged-looking fellow came around his side of the carriage, pointing a rifle at de Tréville’s chest. “Your money, _monsieur_. I’m taking your carriage. Put the gun down or I’ll kill you.”

De Tréville made no sudden moves. This man looked desperate and easily alarmed. “How do I know you won’t kill me anyway?”

“You don’t. But I don’t need you dead. Just the money. Put it away, I said!”

De Tréville put his pistol in its holster inside his jacket, taking his time. “There’s more money in the coach. Pray, allow me to remove my bags though. They’re of no value to anyone but me.”

“I’ll toss them down. Your purse, now!”

De Tréville reached in his coat pocket for his coin purse, carefully not revealing what he could see behind the villain. “Put the rifle down and your hands in the air,” a drawling, aristocratic voice said.

The robber, finding himself with a sharp point behind his air, opened his eyes wide in shock. “I’ll kill him before you kill me,” he stuttered.

De Tréville’s musician did not move a centimetre, and his sword remained perfectly steady. “Perhaps. Or you may simply wound him since your stance is quite atrocious. I, on the other hand, will most certainly cut your throat. Drop it, now!”

The man moved, and so did de Tréville’s musician, slicing him across the neck and making him scream in pain. De Tréville caught the falling rifle before it hit the ground, and the next he saw, the villain was on the ground, bleating that his throat was cut. The musician had his knee firmly in the middle of the man’s back, immobilising him, and his main gauche at the man’s nape to warn him from trying anything.

“Martin lives,” his musician said. “See to him, then find me some cord.”

De Tréville nodded, astonished at the calm, competent, _masterly_ demeanour of his previously mute vagabond companion. Martin had been shot in the shoulder, and bleeding heavily. They had a small store of bandages and dressings to deal with injuries to the horses, so de Tréville used them to staunch the blood. Martin needed a doctor, but that would have to wait until they reached the next town. With luck, he would survive that long now.

“Can you stand?”

Martin nodded, wincing in pain. De Tréville helped him up and into the carriage, made him lie down and get as comfortable as possible, and handed him the water bottle. He fetched some rope and brought it to his musician, who made short work of binding the man’s arms behind him.

“What about his injury?”

The musician didn’t bother to look up as he answered, searching the man’s pockets for other weapons and tossing away a small knife he found. “He’ll live. If not, I care not. What do you wish to do with him?”

“The next town is but five kilometres. I can drive the carriage, while you guard him.”

“Let me, and you ride beside. This one can lie on the floor. There’s no need to guard him. Martin?”

“Needs a doctor very soon. We can find one when we hand this brute over to the police.”

His musician nodded. He hauled the villain to his feet and shoved him into the carriage, where he tied his ankles together, before closing the door. He calmly dealt with the horses, finishing up what Martin had been interrupted in doing, rinsed off his hands, and helped de Tréville into the passenger’s seat up top.

“May I have your name now, _monsieur_? It seems wrong not to know it when you saved my life.”

“Call me Athos,” his musician said, snapping at the reins and setting the horses to walking.

So at least de Tréville had that information, but nothing to explain his extraordinary musical ability, his handiness with a sword, his competence with horses and carriages, or indeed, his cultured speech so at odds with where de Tréville had discovered him.

The police in the town gladly took their prisoner, who had escaped from custody and was wanted for serious crimes including murder. “You were lucky, _monsieur le comte_ ,” the officer said who took down de Tréville’s statement.

“No luck involved, _monsieur_. My companion stopped him from killing me and taking the carriage.”

“A brave man, then.”

“Yes, indeed.”

Martin would need several days to recuperate. De Tréville paid the doctor well to treat and house him, saying he would come to fetch him in a week’s time, and gave him a generous advance for any medicines or further treatment. “Send word immediately if his condition worsens,” he ordered.

There was always the risk of infection, but the doctor was hopeful. “Enjoy your unplanned _congé_ , lad,” de Tréville told him.

“But how will you manage the carriage, _monsieur le comte_?”

“I believe Athos will be around for at least a week. You’re not my only servant, man. Don’t fret. Just relax and get well.”

With the carriage now emptied of wounded and criminals, de Tréville could have ridden inside it. But watching Athos handle the horses and vehicle was a delight, one de Tréville refused to deny himself. The journey to his estate passed easily, and without incident. Also, without conversation, because even though Athos had proved his voice worked, he was not inclined to use it unnecessarily.

“I’m sorry to have to use you as a driver and groom instead of my intended employment of you,” de Tréville said as they pulled up to the stables.

Athos spoke for the first time since they had left Martin to recuperate. “It’s of no concern to me what you wish to use me for, monsieur. You’re the one paying.”

The insolent, slightly mocking manner in which this was delivered made de Tréville grin harder than he had in a very long time. “In that case, please deal with the horses, and I’ll send someone out for the bags. I’ll have a room prepared. And a bath. And a new set of clothes, I think. I won’t have someone in a mask in my household, so don’t bother with that again.”

“Shall I be fed this evening, or should I prepare a meal of hay?”

“Cheeky sod. Food after your bath. Neither of us are fit for a polite dining room right now.”

*************************

Thus began one of the longest, strangest, and most rewarding friendships of de Tréville’s life. He never learned from Athos himself why a man, clearly used to the good things in life, was subsisting as an itinerant musician. However, it didn’t take very long for him to discover that Olivier d’Athos, elder son of the Comte de la Fère from Pinon, had disappeared a year or so before de Tréville had met his Athos. Further enquiry gave him the information that Olivier d’Athos had been born with a large and unsightly birthmark, that his brother had been murdered by a woman just three months ago, and that this woman, allegedly very beautiful, had disappeared completely.

How those facts fit together, de Tréville did not know and would not ask. But his Athos’s extreme reticence, his inability to speak before anyone he did not know and like _extremely_ well (or whom he completely disdained), and the birthmark, together with the fact that no one seemed to be looking for him, painted a picture of unhappiness in his younger life. Possibly even misery, and very likely, parental disdain.

Porthos, who had known motherly love for all too short a time, and grown up under the care of a decent but not paternal priest, had gone the other way. Porthos was loud, friendly, aggressively determined to be noticed, and almost as determined to annoy anyone who looked down on him. On the surface, he and Athos were as unlike as a fish and a goat. But these two young men held special places in de Tréville’s heart for the same reason—they’d let him help them.

Or so Porthos once had. De Tréville had cocked that up, and now it was too late to fix it. He told Athos about Porthos, in the hope that when he, de Tréville, had passed away, Athos might yet be able to find his lost protégé and tell him of de Tréville’s regrets and apologies. Athos had not commented nor passed judgement, for which de Tréville was grateful.

But now de Tréville had Athos in his house, and upon discovering that he was nearly as good at the sword as he was at his music—which meant he was as good a swordsman as de Tréville had ever encountered or hoped to be—de Tréville gleefully exploited the fact. He had a fencing salon set up in the unused grand dining room, and a training area laid out in the back courtyard. Whatever the weather, when his bones were not too troublesome, he would train with Athos, working on his form, sparring for fitness.  When he was in too much pain to exercise, Athos worked on his own every day, as assiduously and with as much knowledge of what he was trying to achieve with his violin practice.

Athos also consented to sing for him whenever he asked. De Tréville’s voice was long past saving, but he could accompany the man on piano. Sometimes Athos would play his violin and they would duet in that fashion. The only audience for these little concerts were de Tréville’s servants. Their performances became a regular feature of the household’s evening routine.

De Tréville did not live in complete isolation. He had many friends from the army, and a few who had been close to his father or the family. Athos was free to join or not join de Tréville when he had company. De Tréville began to refer to him jokingly as his bodyguard, and the label stuck. That an elderly, wealthy, arthritic man would need a guard was not questioned by any of his friends, and since the other side of Athos’s abilities were never revealed to anyone outside the household, it was as good a title as any for what he did for de Tréville.

Athos took his guard role seriously, accompanying de Tréville everywhere he was asked to, and twice more averting an attempted robbery on de Tréville’s person. Outside the estate, de Tréville allowed Athos to wear a leather mask—somewhat better made and much more comfortable than the one he’d worn when de Tréville first saw him—and that small concession was more than worth it for his company and protection.

But there was one thing that neither Athos’s glorious voice nor his sword could help, since no amount of protectiveness could change the reality of old age and disease. His doctors were kind, and offered possible treatments which would extend his life at the cost of excruciating surgery—but not save it—so he refused them all. He would meet his death as he had met the enemy—head on.

After the last consultation where his fate was stated in specific terms, he went home and asked Athos to join him for a brandy, even though it was the middle of the day.

“ _À ta santé,_ ” Athos said, lifting his glass.

“ _Morituri te salutant_ ,” de Tréville replied.

Athos put his glass down without drinking. “It’s terminal, then?”

“How did you know?”

“Doctors, secrecy.” He did not insult de Tréville by offering meaningless sympathy. “What do you want to do with the time you have left?”

“Porthos. I know we have looked, but I must find him.” Athos nodded. “My people here—they must be provided for. And you. I want you happy and safe.”

“I can look after myself.”

“Athos, I don’t want you just to survive. I want you to live, and grow. That insignificant blemish—”

Athos stood abruptly, sending the chair over, and walked away to the window.

“Athos, talk to me. I don’t have enough time left to waste it in silence and quarrelling.”

Athos didn’t turn, but his fists clenched. De Tréville recognised it as a sign that his mutism was preventing him from saying what he wanted to say. “Leave it, man. We’ll talk of it later.”

“This...blemish...my life. Ruined.”

It was said in a harsh whisper as if through gritted teeth. “That’s what I’m trying to say to you,” de Tréville said. “Don’t let it ruin it.”

His friend turned then, his eyes stark and wide in his distress. “Already. Ruined. Already.”

“It doesn’t have to—”

Athos came over and slammed his fists on the table in front of de Tréville. “Already! Too late!”

De Tréville looked up at him calmly. “Sit down.” Athos obeyed, and de Tréville pushed his neglected glass at him.

“Drink that before you say anything else. And while you do that, I’ll tell you that I’ll probably be dead in six months. Twelve with exceptional luck. I’ve had a good life, and I can’t say I’ve been cheated. The main reason I wish I had longer is you, my friend. You have given me years of pleasure, stimulation, and joy from your music, and your company.”

He waited until Athos had drunk at least half the brandy. “I don’t know what happened in your earlier years. But unless you regret these six and a half years with me, don’t say your life has been ruined. Your life has meant something profound to me, at least.”

Athos hung his head. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Finish the brandy, then tell me. I want to know it all. Then we will put it aside to think about. I am leaving everything to you, by the way.”

Athos looked up. “No. I don’t need—”

“Don’t you? You want to go back to playing in taverns? I don’t care what you do with this place, so long as all my people are well cared for. But I want you to keep the Garrison. Keep it in use, make sure good companies are playing there. Let the gift of music spread, Athos. I was wrong to become a soldier. Any fool can wave a gun or operate a cannon, or stand up to be mown down. I had a talent and I wasted it. Porthos has a talent which he will never have a chance to use, and that’s my fault. You, my friend. You have the talent _and_ a chance.”

Athos gestured at his face. “I can’t perform.”

“You can nurture. You can teach. You can promote. So many things you can do. I’ve been a passive owner, though I’ve done my best to make sure only companies intending to put on operas have the lease. You can do more. What, I won’t order. But use it, Athos. Please. It’s the only thing I want. Let it be my family’s monument, and your livelihood.”

“Yes. Jean...thank you.” He reached a hand across the table and de Tréville took it. “I want something else.”

“Anything. Though what else I have—”

“Let me look after you. Don’t turn to a stranger.”

De Tréville hissed in a breath. “It’s not going to be pretty.”

Athos’s mouth twitched. “Neither am I.”

De Tréville barked out a laugh. “True. Yes. And thank you. Now, tell me what happened to you, and then we will talk about what you will do with the Garrison.”

*************************

Five and a half months later, and de Tréville had cause to regret—occasionally—not accepting his doctor’s suggested treatment. Not because he wanted more time for its own sake, but because he had still not found Porthos. Athos thought it was most likely Porthos had gone abroad, even possibly to Australia, or South America. It was the one regret of de Tréville’s life, among so many, that he would give anything to resolve.

He was now far less mobile, though he insisted on coming downstairs each day and returning to his own room in the evening. It would not be long before even that simple act would be beyond him, and after that, he would soon be dead. His doctor had promised to keep the pain under control, even if in doing so, it hastened his end. De Tréville had no Catholic qualms about suicide, and what the pope didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt him.

Athos had also promised not to let him end without honour or dignity.

Thus far, he had only had to resort to opium or morphine a few times. Alcohol was usually enough to ease the worst of it. But nothing eased his conscience. Athos had sat and listened to him talk about Porthos and what he had done and why, so many times, he could probably parrot it back to him by heart. “Promise me you’ll keep looking.”

“I promise with all my heart, Jean.” Athos’s strong hand holding his gave him a small bulwark against the pain.

Then one bitterly cold, early January evening, Édith his housekeeper came in to say a man had come to call. Not a ‘gentleman’, just ‘a man’. “He calls himself Porthos.”

De Tréville stiffened. Athos put his hand on his shoulder. “Are you ready for this, Jean?”

“Of course I am. Help me sit better. Édith, bring some good wine. And brandy. But first, show him in. Quickly, lass.”

Porthos walked in. Tall, handsome, still cocky. “Major.” He did not seem that pleased to be there.

De Tréville tried to sound as happy and welcoming as he could. “Porthos, please, sit down. How did you know we were looking for you?”

“I didn’t.” He sat, stiff and upright, on a chair near se Tréville’s day bed. He glanced up at Athos. “Who’s this?”

“Porthos, this is my bodyguard, Athos. Athos, Porthos du Vallon. Porthos, my dear fellow, I’m so glad you’ve come. Stay for supper. We have so much to talk about.”

Athos left them alone to talk, which they did until nearly midnight. De Tréville reluctantly realised they would have to stop soon. He was unable to sit up much longer but pride wouldn’t let him admit it.”

“You could stay overnight?” he said.

“Nah, I’m good. So, what’s wrong with you?”

“I have cancer. I’m dying.”

Porthos went very still. “How long?”

“Let’s just say it’s fortunate you turned up now, and not in March.”

“Shit, major. Why didn’t you say?”

De Tréville shrugged. “What difference would it have made? You have given me a great gift, Porthos. Being able to talk to you, to really apologise, has meant more than I can say.”

His former protégé said kindly, “You look like you need to go to bed.”

“I do. Will you call here again?”

“I’ll try to. The job’s real busy. The company ain’t got much money, so I’m working a lot of extra days.”

“Good, good.” He reached out a hand and Porthos took it. “If we don’t speak again—no, don’t use platitudes with me, you know I have no time for them—do this for me. Don’t let what Belgard did, what I didn’t do, stop you from being who you really are. Because you are a good, worthy man. Be happy.”

Porthos wiped his eyes with his free hand. “I’ll try, major. Is there anything—”

“No. I’m well cared for. Athos is my nurse as well. Do you need money or anything?”

“Nah, I’m good there too.” He bent and wrapped de Tréville in a careful hug. “Thank you. Cos my life could have been shit and it wasn’t. Wish I’d been smart enough to work that out sooner.”

“All that matters is that you did, and you came back, and now we can say goodbye.”

“You’re gonna start me crying again.”

“No, you mustn’t. Your cheeks will freeze.” Porthos chuckled. “Come if you can, carry my regard with you if you can’t. Be happy. Promise me.”

“I will.” He let de Tréville go, and stood. “Good night, my friend.” He smiled, and walked out, a proud warrior, a fine man.

Somehow de Tréville didn’t think he’d see him again. But that was all right.

Athos came in a minute later and without asking, lifted de Tréville in his arms to carry him up the stairs. Usually de Tréville could walk, after a fashion, but he was too tired and in too much pain. When Athos laid him in his bed and settled him, he asked, “Morphine?”

“Yes. Athos...don’t be like me. If you have it in you to make peace with your family, and it won’t involve you acting dishonourably...it might help.”

Athos didn’t meet his eyes as he filled the syringe. He wiped de Tréville’s arm with neat alcohol and found a vein with practiced ease. Before he administered the injection, he looked at de Tréville. “You and Porthos had business left undone. I do not.”

“Then you know best.” He sighed as he felt the drug entering his vein. “Sit with me until I fall asleep? I hate to ask you.”

“Of course. Would you like me to sing?”

“Only if you can bear to. I’m becoming a silly old man.”

Athos took his hand. “No. You are old, you are ill, but not silly. And you are my friend.”

He sang “[Dalla sua pace](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pvCdLmxApXc)” as de Tréville slipped into unconsciousness, his last remembered thought being that if he died that night in his sleep, he would be content. He had settled his great sorrow.

His boys would be all right. That was all that mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> “ _Morituri te salutant_ ” - “We who are about to die, salute you”


End file.
